


empty

by glitterji



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Crying, Gen, Loneliness, One Shot, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29615346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterji/pseuds/glitterji
Summary: Chan is lonely and Minho wishes he wasn't a ghost.
Kudos: 3





	empty

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this back in november 2020 for a storybook collab on twitter! i don't think it's been put together yet but when it is i'll edit with a link to that :]

It had rained that day. Normally he could enjoy a nice rain shower, but having to walk home in the downpour sort of dampened the mood. Chan had forgotten an umbrella and his hoodie had been quickly and thoroughly soaked through before he even made it a block from the convenience store he'd spent the early morning hours behind the counter at. Cold and wet, Chan felt absolutely miserable. His sneakers slapped against the wet sidewalk and no matter how much he kept his eyes glued to their rhythmic movement he couldn't ignore the people bustling around him. Couples sharing umbrellas and friends meeting up in the rain, delighting in their misfortune. He was relieved when he finally ducked out of the rain and into his apartment building. 

  
The door to his room opened with a dreary creak, almost as if laughing at his dripping clothes and dragging feet. "Can it," Chan muttered. Gosh, he was tired.

  
Loneliness. That's what had been gnawing at the back of his mind for so long now. The realization slammed him hard as he stood just inside the door, the emptiness of his apartment looming before him. It was so quiet here. It was always so quiet. Maybe that's why he played his music loud. It really had nothing to do with noise. It was all an attempt to drown out the silence that followed him everywhere. No music or movie or podcast could replace the simple sounds of another person. 

  
Chan sat on the edge of his bed with a sigh, peeling his hoodie off and tossing it to the floor. For a moment he simply stared at the wall, a million thoughts flying through his mind. It was getting to be too much lately. Ironically, it was when the silence ate away at him the most that everything became deafening. His thoughts screamed, shouted, clambered at the inside of his mind, trying to get out. 

  
In that moment, with only a blank wall for company, he couldn't hold it in any longer. Chan buried his face in his hands and his shoulders shook with a shuddering sob that bubbled up from inside him and broke through. He sat in the empty room and the blank wall echoed his own cries back at him.

  
Minho was being torn apart. Each tear Chan shed felt like a hot dagger driven through his chest. His stomach felt hollow as the crying filled his ears. He was helpless. Invisible. He cursed bitterly at whatever power had decided he should be a ghost, and not simply rest peacefully. He cursed them for being bound to this apartment. He cursed himself, because maybe if he hadn't grown fond of Chan it wouldn't hurt terribly to see him cry. He cursed everything, anger rising to shield him from the pain that blinded him upon seeing his friend break.

  
If only he wasn't a ghost. No matter how hard he wished, how loud he screamed his frustration, nothing would change. He didn't exist, not really. He hadn't felt the heat of the sun or the bitter winds of winter since he'd been alive. He would never again experience the simple joy of petting a cat and feeling its soft fur under his fingers. His words would never be heard. When it mattered most, he could do nothing. 

  
He'd withered away in the dusty apartment for decades before Chan had come along and unknowingly turned things around. There was something about him that from the moment he'd stepped in the door Minho knew he was someone special. And in the time since, Minho had only felt more and more attached to him. He'd celebrated with Chan at every small victory and step toward success. He'd listened as Chan spilled his entire being into music and been amazed at the things he could create. He'd worried over Chan when he was sick. He'd danced around the room with Chan in the middle of the night to some song he didn't know, laughing and feeling more alive and _there_ than he had in so long.

  
Minho felt as if his heart was being broken again and again. Over and over. He couldn't just watch. Minho knew Chan couldn't see, feel, or hear him, but he couldn't stand by while Chan wept. With tears threatening in his own eyes, he sat down behind Chan on the bed and wrapped his arms around Chan's shaking shoulders. Minho hugged him tightly, head against his back, hoping that somehow, someway, Chan would sense his presence and know he was not alone. That Minho was there for him. Would always be there for him. 

  
As he held Chan, the crying slowed. A quietness replaced the sorrow, and for once the quiet was somehow comforting. Chan lifted his head and wiped away the tears. Minho clung to him, reluctant to let go, grasping at a phantom of warmth and desperately pressing against the first thing he'd felt since his death.


End file.
